36*05 

CMS 


Cameron 
Four  Acting  Monologues 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


'I'  *  •>  -I- 


MARGARET  CAMERON 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY  SAMUEL  FRENCH 


A.11  Rights  Reserved 


NOTICE.—  The  profeuelonal  acting  rlghta  of  this  play  are 
reserved  by  the  publisher,  and  permission  for  such  per 
formances  must  be  obtained  before  performances  are 
given.  This  notice  does  not  apply  to  amateurs  who  may 
perform  the  play  without  permission.  All  professional 
unauthorized  productions  will  be  prosecuted  to  the  full 
extent  of  the  law. 


PRICE  30  CENTS 


NEW  YORK 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 

25  WEST  4STH  STREET 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 

STRAND 


FOUR 
ACTING  MONOLOGUES 


BY 

MARGARET  CAMERON 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY  SAMUEL  FRENCH 


NOTICE. — Professional  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  reserved 
by  the  publisher,  and  permission  for  such  performances 
must  be  obtained  before  performances  are  given.  This 
notice  dots  not  apply  to  amateurs,  who  may  perform  the 
play  without  permission.  All  professional  unauthorized 
productions  will  be  prosecuted  to  the  full  extent  of  tke  law. 


NEW  YORK 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 


LONDON 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  LTD. 
26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET 


25  WEST  4STH  STREET  I  STRAND 


PS 


UNEXPECTED  GUESTS. 

Now,  Eleanor,  if  you  can't  keep  out  of  the  way, 
you  run  right  upstairs  and  play.  I  can't  have  you 
hanging  to  my  skirts  while  I'm  getting  luncheon.  .  .  . 
Well,  Kate's  washing,  you  know.  .  .  .  No,  of  course 
you  dan't  go  where  Katie  is.  She's  cross  enough 
now,  goodness  knows  !  Here  she  comes !  Now,  you 
run  right  out  of  the  kitchen. 

I've  just  come  out  (apologetically)  to  make  a 
cup  of  tea,  Katie.  I'll  have  some  bread  and  butter 
and  tea  for  luncheon,  and  Eleanore  can  have  bread 
and  milk.  ...  No  bread !  Why,  Katie !  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes,  of  course !  I  forgot  that  we  had  a  chafing-dish 
supper  last  night.  .  .  .  Yes,  you're  quite  right;  it 
takes  a  great  deal  of  bread  to  make  toast.  Of  course 
you  couldn't  be  expected  to  foresee  emergencies  like 
that.  (Resignedly.)  Oh,  well,  we'll  eat  crackers. 
And  I'll  get  some  jam. 

(Severely.)  Eleanore,  what  are  you  doing?  Come 
right  out  of  the  pantry.  Whv,  Eleanore  Pelham! 
Look  what  you've  done!  What  is  that?  Molasses? 
All  over  Katie's  clean  shelves !  You  naughty  girl ! 

(Apologetically.)  Never  mind,  Katie,  I'll  clean 
it  up.  .  .  • .  Yes,  I  know :  you're  busy  with  the  wash 
ing.  Mercy!  There's  the  door-bell!  (Glances  at 
clock.}  Just  twelve  o'clock.  Must  be  a  pedlar.  I 
can't  go,  and  you — oh,  no,  of  course  I  never  expect 
you  to  answer  the  bell  on  wash-day,  Katie.  Eleanore, 
you  go  to  the  door,  and  say  that  I'm  busy  and  that 

8 


11O3685 


4  UNEXPECTED  GUESTS. 

I  don't  want  anything.  And  don't  stand  talking  to 
the  man,  but  shut  the  door  at  once.  Then  go  upstairs 
and  wait  until  I  come.  Do  you  understand  ? 

I'm  very  sorry  about  the  molasses,  Katie,  but  I'll 
clean  it  all  up.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  little  people  don't 
always  realize  what  trouble  they  are  making,  you 
know.  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  punish  her,  certainly.  You 
may  go  back  to  the  laundry.  I'll  attend  to  this  and 
get  luncheon.  (Business  of  getting  pan  of  water, 
wringing  out  doth,  and  wiping  up  shelves  and  floor.) 
Ugh  !  Of  all  the  sticky  messes  ! 

(On  knees  cleaning  -floor.  Business  of  taking  card 
with  wet  fingers.)  What?  Ladies?  At  this  hour? 
Let  me  see,  Eleanore.  Mrs.  James  Norton  Enderby ! 
My  land !  I  asked  her  to  r^me  to  luncheon  any  day 
that  she  happened  to  be  in  town: — and  she's  come! 
What?  You  told  her — Eleanore  Gladys  Pelham ! 
Did  you  tell  that  lady  that  I  was  busy  and  didn't 
want  anything?  .  .  .  Well,  you'll  go  straight  to  bed! 
(Business  of  taking  child  firmly  by  arm  and  leading 
her  out.)  Now  stop  your  whimpering  this  instant! 
I've  no  time  for  any  nonsense  of  that  sort !  And  it's 
wash-day !  And  Katie's  perfectly  savage !  And 
there's  not  a  slice  of  bread  in  the  house !  And  all 
this  horrid  mess  in  the  pantrv !  Two  ladies,  did  you 
say?  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  she  can't  intend  to  stay,  then. 
I'll  just  leave  this  until  she's  gone.  (Business  of 
wiping  hands  arranging  hair  and  dress — leaving 
kitchen  and  entering  another  room,  brightly  smiling.) 

Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Enderby?  (Business  of 
shaking  hands.}  So  delighted  to  see  you  !  .  .  .  Your 
sister?  Not  your  sister  Florence,  whom  you  have 
told  me  so  much  about?  .  .  .  Oh,  so  charmed  to 
meet  you,  Miss  Johnson  !  .  ,  .  Why.  certainly,  Mrs. 
Enderby !  So  nice  of  you  to  understand  that  I 
should  want  to  meet  her  at  once!  .  .  .  No,  I  won't 
make  a  bit  of  fuss.  .  .  .  Just  what  we  should  have 
ourselves,  you  know.  Let  me  take  your  wraps.  It's 
so  delightful  to  have  you  drop  in  in  this  informal 
way!  Eleanore  and  I  are  often  quite  lonely.  .  .  . 


UNEXPECTED  GUESTS.  5 

Yes,  my  little  girl.  .  .  .  Oh,  did  she?  (In  mock 
consternation.)  How  dreadful  of  her!  I  told  her 
once  to  say  something  like  that  to  a  miserable  book- 
agent  whom  I  saw  coming,  and  she's  never  forgotten 
it.  Children  have  such  unfathomable  memories! 
Now,  will  you  amuse  yourselves  for  a  moment,  while 
I  put  away  your  wraps  and  tell  my  maid  to  lay  some 
extra  plates  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  not  the  least  in  the  world ! 
That's  one  thing  that  my  maids  always  understand 
from  the  first — that  there  shall  be  no  complaints 
about  unexpected  guests.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  it  requires  a 
little  firmness  and  tact  in  the  beginning,  but  they 
can  always  be  trained,  and  I  simply  will  not  be  a 
f  lave  to  my  cook !  • 

(Business  of  leaving  drawing-room  and  entering 
Tcitchen.  Artificial  smile  vanishes  suddenly  and  look 
of  great  anxiety  replaces  it.)  Oh,  dear,  what  shall  I 
do?  I've  got  to  tell  Katie !  If—  Well,  there's  no 
help  for  it !  (Sighs  deeply.  Then  calls  very 
sweetly.)  Katie!  Oh,  Katie!  Come  here  a  mo 
ment,  please.  Some  ladies  have  just  come  and — 
Oh,  I'm  very  sorry,  Katie,  but  really,  I  can't  help  it ! 
— and  we've  got  to  give  them  something  to  eat.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  see,  it's  very  important  because — oh,  well, 
I  haven't  time  to  explain  now,  but  there  are  reasons 
why  I  must  be  nice  to  Mrs.  Enderby.  Now  what  can 
you  give  us  for  luncheon?  .  .  .  (Pleadingly.)  But, 
Katie,  I  can't  get  it  now!  You  may  leave  the  rest 
of  the  washing.  .  .  .  Well,  then,  I'll  send  it  out.  .  .  . 
Katie  (firmly),  you  must  get  us  some  lunch  !  I  don't 
know  what,  but  I've  got  to  go  back  in  the  other  room, 
and  you  are  to  get  luncheon.  You  understand, 
Katie !  .  .  .  Why,  give  us  the  cold  chicken  that  was 
left  from  yesterday's  dinner.  .  .  .  Gone!  (Aston 
ished.)  Impossible!  There  was  almost  a  whole  one 
left  when  it  came  off  the  table.  I  noticed  it  particu 
larly,  and  thought  it  would  do  for  dinner  to-night, 
with  a  little  stretching.  .  .  .  Oh,  certainly,  Katie,  I 
haven't  the  least  objection  to  your  having  every 
thing  that  you  need  to  eat,  but  a  whole  chick — 


6  UNEXPECTED  GUESTS. 

Oh,  well,  never  mind !  But  get  us  something !  .  .  .  I 
know  there's  no  bread,  but  isn't  it  almost  time  for 
the  baker?  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  we  can't  wait  until  half- 
past  two,  you  know.  That  is  nonsense.  You  must 
make  some  hot  biscuits,  only  be  quick !  (Returns  to 
drawing-room.) 

Why,  Eleanore,  are  you  here  entertaining  the  la 
dies?  I'm  afraid  you  are  bothering  Miss  Johnson. 
Not  everybody  likes  to  have  little  girls  leaning  on 
them.  .  .  .  Oh,  she's  been  showing  you  her  kinder 
garten  things,  has  she?  .  .  .  Yes,  we  think  she  has 
rather  an  unusual  adaptability  for  that  sort  of  thing. 
We  hope  she's  going  to  be  an  artist.  (Sits.)  Her 
teacher  thinks  she  shows  great  talent.  Eleanore,  can 
you  tell  Miss  Johnson  about  Mrs.  Pussy  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
think  you  can !  .  .  .  Come,  come,  now,  don't  be 
naughty !  Tell  Miss  Johnson  about  Mrs.  Pussy,  and 
then  mamma'll  give  you  some  candy.  Stand  right 
here  by  mamma.  Take  your  finger  out  of  your 
mouth ! — so.  Now  begin.  "  Mrs.  Pussy,  sleek  and  fat 
-—**...  "  kittens  four."  That's  right !  "  Went  to 
sleep — "  Go  on,  dear.  ..."  By  the  kitchen — door." 
That's  right !  .  .  .  Yes,  she's  only  five,  you  know ! 
Now  the  next  verse,  dearie.  .  .  Oh,  yes  !  Come,  now, 
go  right  on !  "  Mrs  Pussy  heard' — "  .  .  .  " — in 
glee."  Yes ;  go  on.  "  Kittens,  maybe — "  .  .  .  " — go 
and  see.  .  .  .  Yes,  we  think  she  has  a  very  remark 
able  memory.  Her  teacher  says  she  remembers  these 
things  better  than  any  other  child  in  the  class.  Now, 
Eleanore  !  "  Creeping,  creeping — "...  Oh,  have 
you  forgotten  it  ?  You  knew  it  so  well  yesterday ! 
"  But  the  little  mouse  had  gone — •"  Why,  Eleanore 
Pelham  !  What's  this  on  vour  dress  ?  .  .  .  Molasses  ! 
Oh — er — yes,  I  forgot !  Will  you  excuse  me  a  mo 
ment  while  I  go  and — er — scrub  this  small  girl? 
Come,  Eleanore.  (  Leads  child  out.  Again  forced 
smile  dies.  Speaks  impatiently.) 

Now  you  go  straight  up  the  back  stairs  to  your 
play-room,  and  stay  there  until  I  come.  Don't  come 
down  again,  Eleanore.  Do  you  understand?  I'll 


UNEXPECTED  GUESTS.  7 

come  when  I  have  cleaned  up  the  molasses  you  spilled 
all  over  the  pantry  ! 

(Business  of  entering  kitchen.)  Why,  Katie! 
Why  aren't  you  getting  luncheon?  .  .  .  Well,  I  told 
you  to  make  biscuits.  Yes,  I  know  there's  molasses 
all  over  the  pantry — I'm  very  sorry  about  that,  Katie  ! 
— but  can't  you  make  biscuits  on  the  kitchen-table 
this  once?  .  .  .  Well,  but  we  must  have  something 
to  eat !  It's  one  o'clock  now !  .  .  .  Katie  !  (Almost 
a  wail.)  Leave  me — now?  Oh,  you  can't!  You — 
you  mustn't!  ...  I  know!  It  was  very  thoughtless 
of  Mrs.  Enderby  to  come  on  Monday — stupid  thing 
she  is,  anyway ! — and  I  ought  not  to  have  given  her 
that  sort  of  an  invitation !  But  if  you'll  stay  and 
serve  luncheon,  I'll — I'll  give  you  that  new  silk  petti 
coat  of  mine!  It's  just  about  long  enough  for  you. 
.  .  .  No,  you  needn't  cook  anything!  We'll  have — 
let  me  see  ! — is  there  any  boned  chicken  in  the  house  ? 
I  mean  canned  chicken,  you  know!  .  .  .  Well,  if 
you'll  open  a  can  of  that,  I'll  cream  it  in  the  chafing- 
dish,  and —  No,  you  needn't  make  biscuits !  I'll 
serve  it  on  toasted  crackers.  If  you'll  set  the  table, 
Katie,  and  toast  the  crackers,  and  open  the  chicken, 
and  serve  the  luncheon,  I'll  wash  the  dishes — and 
give  you  that  silk  petticoat — and — yes,  and  a  whole 
day  off!  .  .  .  To-morrow?  Yes,  the  ironing  can 
wait.  .  .'  .  Well,  then,  I'll  have  some  one  come  in  and 
do  it.  Now,  that's  a  good  girl,  Katie!  (Business 
of  having  kitchen.  Sighs  with  relief.)  A-a-ah ! 

(Enters  drawing-room  and  assumes  smiling  society 
manner.)  Yes,  we  went  to  hear  her  last  night.  Do 
you  think  she's  as  attractive  in  this  role  as  she  was  in 
"  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda  "  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  perhaps  I 
wasn't  in  a  very  responsive  mood.  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  not  in 
the  least,  Mrs.  Enderby !  Indeed,  I'm  going  to  take 
you  at  your  word,  and  give  you  a  picked-up  luncheon 
—just  what  we  should  have  had  ourselves,  you  know. 
But  on  Mondays  we  always  have  luncheon  rather  late 
— in  fact,  we  have  it  quite  late.  I  hope  you  don't 
mind  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  have  a  very  satisfactory  maid — as 


8  UNEXPECTED  GUESTS. 

maids  go.  Of  course,  she  needs  a  little  managing, 
but  I  really  think  I  have  a  way  with  servants.  I 
really  have.  I  seldom  have  much  trouble  with  them, 
until  they  get  perfectly  unendurable,  and  then — I 
simply  dismiss  them,  you  know.  Have  you  heard 
about  poor  Mrs.  Drayton?  She  tried  to  dismiss  her 
cook  last  week,  and  the  woman  drove  her  out  of  the 
kitchen  by  throwing  things  at  her — anything  within 
her  reach,  you  know !  Poor  Mrs.  Drayton  was  so 
upset,  she  had  to  send  for  the  doctor  and  a  policeman. 
Now,  if  I  had  a  maid  who  was  given  to  throwing 
things  about,  I  should —  (Listens,  startled.)  Good 
gracious !  what's  that  ?  Excuse  me  a  moment ! 
(Business  of  hurrying  from  drawing-room  to  dining 
room.  Speaks  to  maid  with  nervous  and  forced 
amiability.) 

Oh,  you  dropped  the  chafing-dish,  Katie?  .  .  . 
They  are  slippery  things.  I  dropped  one  once  my 
self.  Anything  broken?  .  .  .  (Business  of  examin 
ing  pieces.)  No,  I  think  it's  all  right.  Have  you  the 
crackers  ready  to  toast?  Here's  the  chicken — butter 
— cream — flour — olives — yes,  I  think  that's  all.  Oh, 
did  you  fill  the  lamp — the  alcohol-lamp  under  the 
chafing-dish  ?  .  .  .  Never  mind ;  I'll  do  it.  And  tea, 
jam,  and  little  cakes  for  dessert.  All  ready,  Katie? 
.  .  .  Yes,  you  shall  have  the  petticoat  this  afternoon, 
just  as  I  promised  you. 

(Business  of  returning  to  drawing-room.  Very 
smiling  and  easy.)  Won't  you  come  out  to  luncheon, 
ladies  ? 


THE  P.  A.  I.  L.  W.  R. 


(Conversational  tone.)  Is  this  Mrs.  Brastow  ?  .  .  . 
Yes,  good  morning,  Mrs.  Brastow.  I  thought  I 
couldn't  be  mistaken.  What  a  charming  location  you 
have  here !  I  was  in  this  city  when  Mr.  Brastow 
bought  this  lot.  I  said  then  that  it  was  an  ideal  site 
for  a  home,  and  I  see  it  is.  And  an  ideal  home  on 
the  site.  .  .  .  No,  I've  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  before,  but  I've  had  many  a  long  talk 
with  your  husband  during  the  past  fifteen  years.  .  .  . 
Oh,  yes,  I  know  Mr.  Brastow  well.  You  may  have 
heard  him  speak  of  me.  Jones  is  my  name.  Charlie 
Jones.  Yes,  I  know  him  well  ....  Thank  you,  I 
will  come  in  for  a  moment.  (Business  of  entering 
house.) 

What  a  lovely  room,  to  be  sure !  Such  a  sense  of 
restfulness  pervades  it !  How  one  does  feel  the  in 
dividuality  of  a  room,  Mrs.  Brastow!  And  I  sup 
pose  everything  in  your  house  is  as  perfect,  in  its 
wayr  as  this  room  is. 

There  can  be  only  one  thing  necessary  to  complete 
it,  and  that  one  thing  I  shall  now  have  the  pleasure 
of  introducing  to  you.  (Business  of  producing  article 
from  pocket — or  bag.  Speech  becomes  rapid,  mechan 
ical  and  very  distinct —  as  if  memorized  and  often 
repeated.)  It  is  the  Patent  Adjustable  Indestructible 
Loop  Wire  Eeceptacle — sometimes  called  the  P.  A.  I. 
L.  W.  E.,  for  short — capable  of  being  transformed, 
at  a  moment's  notice,  and  without  the  aid  of  any 
other  tool  or  instrument  except  the  human  hand,  into 
any  one  of  twenty-three  separate  and  distinct  house- 

9 


10  THE  P.  A.  I.  L.  W.  R. 

hold  articles,  each  one  absolutely  indispensable  to  the 
well-regulated  and  adequately  equipped  home.  For 
example,  as  you  see  it  now,  it  is  a  fruit-dish.  Piled 
high  with  oranges  and  bananas,  it  is  a  most  artistic 
and  beautiful  centerpiece  for  any  table.  You  will 
notice  that  the  wires  are  all  plated  with  a  patented 
composition,  invented  especially  for  this  article,  which 
makes  them  look  like  the  finest  spun  silver.  This 
plate  is  permanent  and  will  never  wear  off.  Like 
everything  else  used  in  the  composition  of  the  Patent 
Adjustable  Indestructible  Loop  Wire  Receptacle,  it  is 
absolutely  indestructible.  Just  picture  to  yourself  a 
dining-table  with  this  magnificent  article  as  a  center 
piece 

(tfudden  change  to  conversational  tone  again.) 
You  never  eat  fruit  ?  Is  it  possible  !  I  had  a  brother 
who  had  a  similar  taste.  I've  known  him  to  leave  the 
table  because  he  was  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  a 
plate  of  ripe  fruit.  On  one  occasion  he  broke  up  a 
dinner-party  by  so  doing,  because  he  was  the  four 
teenth  guest,  and,  of  course,  when  he  left — well, 
you've  heard  of  that  little  superstition  of  thirteen  at 
table.  .  .  .  Ah?  Well,  neither  am  I.  I  believe  I 
have  no  superstitions. — unless,  indeed,  it's  the  one 
about  pins.  "  See  a  pin  and  pick  it  up,"  you  know. 
I  never  fail  to  pick  up  a  pin,  and  it  always  brings  me 
good  luck.  I  picked  up  one  on  your  step,  while  I 
was  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened. 

By  the  way,  talking  about  pins,  (returns  to 
mechanical  tone)  by  compressing  this  wonderful 
article,  thus,  it  becomes  a  pin-tray,  an  article,  indis 
pensable  to  every  well-appointed  dressing-table.  .  .  . 
Ah?  You  use  silver  pin-trays.  Well,  of  course, 
many  ladies  are  fortunate  enough  to  be  supplied  with 
them  now,  but  one  never  knows  when  thieves  may 
break  in  and  steal,  you  know.  And  then,  one  is  liable 
to  run  up  against  an  emergency,  such  as  unexpected 
guests  from  the  country,  who  have  to  be  accomodated 
in  improvised  bed-rooms — bed-lounges,  and  that  sort 
of  thing — and,  of  course,  a  conscientious  hostess  al 
ways  likes  to  be  equal  to  the  occasion.  Now,  with  a 
number  of  these  marvelous  articles  in  the  house,  &\ 


THE  P.  A.  I.  L.  W.  B.  H 

complete  toilet-set,  lacking  only  the  brush  and  mirror, 
may  be  had  at  a  moment's  notice.  This,  as  I  have 
said,  is  the  pin-tray.  Now,  you  slip  this  loop,  turn  it 
thus,  pull  it  out,  and,  presto !  you  have  a  beautiful 
silver  comb !  By  snapping  these  loops  down,  thus, 
a  handle  is  formed,  and  the  loop  at  the  opposite  end 
may  be  used  as  a  button-hook. 

At,  yes,  many  ladies  wear  laced  boots  now,  but  I 
am  confidentially  informed  that  buttons  are  coming 
in,  and  in  a  year  all  women's  shoes  will  be  buttoned. 
"  A  stitch  in  time,"  you  know.  One  should  always 
be  prepared.  That's  the  secret  of  success.  Always 
be  prepared.  Now,  by  slipping  this  spring,  the  whole 
string  of  loops  becomes  a  chain,  useful  in  a  variety 
of  ways.  It's  often  found  valuable  as  a  supporter 
for  pillow-shams;  or,  united  at  the  ends,  thus,  it  is 
worn  about  a  lady's  neck  as  a  watch-chain — or  a 
lorgnette  may  be  attached  to  the  end.  You've  noticed 
how  very  fashionable  these  long  chains  have  become 
since  the  introduction  of  the  Patent  Adjustable 
Indestructible  Loop  Wire  Receptacle.  Or,  by  again 
forming  the  basket  foundation,  thus,  and  attaching 
the  braces,  so,  one  has  an  egg-basket,  always  a  neces 
sary  article  in  every  house 

(Conversational  tone.)  Never  eat  eggs ?  Indeed! 
Now,  that's  very  interesting!  You  know,  I'm  mak 
ing  up  a  set  of  statistics  about  the  people  who  don't 
eat  things,  and  the  things  people  don't  eat.  Take 
your  own  case,  for  example.  I've  discovered  in  this 
short  time  that  you  eat  neither  fruit  nor  eggs.  One 
season  I  solicited  orders  for  a  set  of  patent  cake-tins, 
and  you'd  be  surprised  at  the  number  of  ladies  who 
assured  me  that  they  never  ate  cake.  It's  most  inter 
esting. 

Yes,  to  be  sure;  I  know  it's  Saturday  morning, 
and  that's  always  a  busy  morning  for  a  housekeeper. 
I'll  not  detain  you  a  moment.  As  I  was  about  to 
say,  (mechanically)  by  compressing  this  part  and 
sliding  the  handle  down,  you  have  a  most  complete 
and  artistic  pudding-dish,  of  unique  and  pleasing 
shape.  Oh,  pardon  me,  perhaps  you  never  eat  pud 
dings,  either  ?  Ah,  mos_tjnteresting !  Or,  by  flatten- 


12  THE  P.  A.  L  L.  W.  R 

ing  it,  thus,  and  pulling  this  end  out,  you  have  a 
complete  toaster  and  broiler,  suitable  for  use  with 
any  kind  of  heat,  coal,  gas,  oil,  or  electricity.  Again, 
by  scooping  out  the  bottom,  thus,  pushing  these  wires 
back,  and  shaping  it  a  little  with  the  fingers,  you 
have  a  handsome  picture-frame,  of  the  shape  known 
as  the  shadow-box,  without  the  heavy,  sombre  appear 
ance  of  the  usual  shadow-boxes  made  in  black. 

Now,  I  see  by  the  toys  on  the  front  stoop  that 
you  have  little  ones — ah,  yes,  what  is  home  without 
the  little  darlings ! — and  what  could  be  a  more  suit 
able  frame  for  the  baby's  picture  than  that  ?  Just 
fancy  the  little  dear — his  father's  joy — a  little  girl? 
(Conversational.)  Indeed!  I  might  have  known  it! 
I  think  I  saw  her  outside.  She  has  her  mother's 
smile.  As  I  was  about  to  say,  just  picture  the  little 
dear,  his  fa — oh,  to  be  sure ! — her  father's  joy,  look 
ing  out  of  that  shining  frame !  Have  you  the  baby's 
picture  at  hand,  Mrs.  Brastow?  Ah,  I'm  sorry,  I 
should  have  liked  to  see  it  in  this  frame.  It  would 
have  been  a  pleasant  memory  to  carry  away  with  me. 

Yes;  just  a  moment,  please.  (Mechanical.) 
Then,  by  completing  the  basket  form  again,  and  by 
stretching  these  loops  to  the  uttermost,  you  have  a 
waste-basket,  light,  durable,  clean,  and  exceedingly 
handsome.  Or  by  slightly  pressing  it  together  and 
decreasing  its  size,  one  has  a  jardiniere,  suitable  for 
— just  a  moment,  please — a  jardiniere,  suitable  for 
potted  plants. 

By  studying  the  various  combinations  possible  to 
the  Patent  Adjustable  Indestructible  Loop  Wire 
Eeceptacle — and  we  give  with  each  one  (without 
extra  charge)  a  copy  of  this  valuable  little  booklet 
containing  full  instructions! — one  may  have,  as  I 
have  said,  a  fruit-dish,  a  pin-tray,  a  beautiful  hair- 
comb,  a  watch-chain,  a  sham-supporter,  a  pudding- 
dish,  an  egg-basket,  a  toaster  and  broiler,  a  picture- 
frame,  a  waste-basket,  or  a  jardiniere.  Not  only 
this — I'll  not  detain  you  five  minutes  more,  madam ! 
— but  a  candlestick!— you  know  how  fashionable 


THE  P.  A.  I.  L.  W.  R.  13 

candles  have  become  since  this  wonderful  little  in 
vention  has  been  on  the  market? — a  small  easel,  a 
receptacle  for  a  glass  holding  hot  liquid,  as  whis — 
ahem ! — lemonade;  a  stove-hook,  a  flatiron  stand,  a 
tea-tray — perhaps  you  don't  drink  tea?  Beg  par 
don  ;  no  offence  meant,  I  assure  you !  I  was  merely 
thinking  of  my  book — the  statistics,  you  know. 

Yes,  yes,  I  quite  appreciate  your  position,  Mrs. 
Brastow.  I'm  a  busy  man  myself,  and,  of  course, 
the  quicker  I  can  make  a  sale,  the  better  I'm  pleased. 
Now,  sometimes  I  make  a  sale  right  away,  and 
sometimes  it  takes  me  all  the  morning.  It's  against 
my  principles  to  ask  anybody  to  buy.  There's  no 
greater  mistake  in  this  business  than  urging  people 
to  buy.  The  point  is  to  convince  the  lady  that  she 
wants  the  article — just  stay  right  with  her  until 
she's  convinced — and  then  your  work's  done.  The 
really  successful  salesman  never  has  to  ask  anybody 
to  buy.  I'm  very  successful  that  way  myself. 

But  some  ladies  are  slow  to  accept  the  fact,  you 
know,  that  there's  anything  new  in  the  world  that's 
better  than  the  old  thing  they  happen  to  have. 
Now,  I  found  a  little  woman  in  Davisville  last  week, 
who  was  very  hard  to  convince ;  but  I  never  give  up, 
you  know,  never  give  up !  That's  the  secret  of  suc 
cess.  Never  say  die !  And  I  stayed  with  that  wo 
man  from  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  three 
in  the  afternoon.  But  I  made  the  sale !  Now  she 
couldn't  keep  house  without  the  Patent  Adjustable 
Indestructible  Loop  Wire  Receptacle.  However,  I 
was  about  to  call  your  attention  to — 

Well,  they're  being  sold  now  at  the  remarkably 
low  price  of  sixty-five  cents,  just  to  introduce  them, 
you  know.  Many  ladies  are  buying  them  by  the 
dozen  and  half-dozen,  realizing  that  this  opportu 
nity  will  not  offer  again.  WThen  I  come  around  next 
year,  the  price  will  have  advanced  fifty  per  cent., 
and  I  expect  to  make  twice  as  many  sales,  for  then 
every  lady  will  know  me  and  the  Patent  Adjustable 
Indestructible  Loop  Wire  Receptacle,  and  will  real- 


14  THE  P.  A.  I.  L.  W.  R. 

ize  that  she'll  save  her  time  and  mine  by  buying  it 
at  once.  Not  that  it  isn't  a  pleasure  to  show  it.  I'm 
as  proud  of  it  as  if  it  were  my  own  invention.  But 
as  I  was  about  to  say 

One  ?  Oh,  I  think  you'll  need  more  than  that ! 
With  a  house  of  this  size,  you  could  hardly  get 
along  without  more  than  that.  I  consider  six  a 
very  small  order  for  a  place  as  large  as  this.  No, 
really,  Mrs.  Brastow,  my  conscience  would  ache  if  I 
let  you  do  yourself  that  wrong.  Yes,  I  know,  but 
you'll  thank  me  when  I'm  gone.  No,  I  couldn't  feel 
right  about  it.  Well,  of  course,  you  might  get 
along  with  three,  but  for  your  own  sake^  I  hate  to 
leave  less  than  half  a  dozen  with  you.  Three  ?  Very 
well.  Yes,  one  ninety-five,  please.  That's  right, 
thank  you.  I  was  about  to  call  your  attention  to 
the  tact  that,  in  addition  to  the  things  I  have  men 
tioned — • — 

(In  a  tone  of  injured  innocence.)  My  dear 
madam,  I'm  telling  you  this  solely  for  your  own  con 
venience  !  My  sale's  made.  Very  well ;  but  you'll 
find  in  the  little  booklet  the  directions  for  making 
the  bread-tray,  handkerchief-case,  cigar-holder,  ink 
stand,  footstool,  and  hand-satchel,  in  addition  to  the 
other  things  I  mentioned.  (Genially.}  Good  morn 
ing,  Mrs.  Brastow.  I'm  very  glad  to  have  met  you. 
I'll  call  again  next  year. 


IN  A  STREET-CAR/ 


A  MONOLOGUE. 

(She  runs  on  and  pauses,  panting,  on  the  car-step.) 
Oh,  conductor,  wait  a  minute,  won't  you  ?  There's 
another  lady  coming.  Well,  she's  running  just  as 
hard  as  she  can.  She  ain't  so  light  as  I  am.  (Calls 
to  her  friend.)  Hurry  up!  He  won't  wait!  (To 
the  conductor.)  Land  knows  we  wait  long  enough 
for  you,  sometimes !  You  needn't  be  so  mighty  up 
pish  about  waiting  a  second  for  us  once  in  a  while ! 
.  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Time-table?  Huh!  Your  time 
table's  a  moveable  feast,  I  guess !  I  notice  the  only 
time  you're  on  time's  when  there's  nobody  waiting 
for  you ! 

(To  her  friend.)  Oh,  here  you  are!  Yes,  isn't 
it  an  awful  pull  up  that  hill  ?  (Lurches  toward  a 
seat.)  Oh,  my!  (To  a  passenger.)  Excuse  me! 
I  didn't  mean  to !  That  is — I  couldn't  help  it,  you 
know!  '  (Sits.  To  her  friend  in  a  low,  embarrassed, 
amused  tone.)  Did  you  see  what  I  did?  I  sat  right 
square  down  on  that  man !  I  think  I  smashed  some 
thing  he's  got  in  that  parcel !  Something  crushed, 
anyhow.  What  do  you  s'pose  it  is  ?  .  .  .  Looks  some 
as  if  it  might  be  a  hat,  don't  it?  ...  My,  don't  he 
look  cross!  (Louder  for  benefit  of  passengers.) 
Well,  I  couldn't  help  it !  These  men  ought  to  learn 
to  start  a  car  without  jerking  a  lady  off  her  feet! 

Oh,  see  here,  I'm  going  to  pay  this  fare !  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  am,  too !  You  always  try  to  get  in  ahead.  .  .  . 
No,  I've  got  it  right  here !  Where  is  my  purse  ? 
Why — I  believe  I've  lost  it !  Yes,  sfr,  I  must  have 
lost  it  running  up  that  hill !  Stop  the  car !  Oh, 
look  here,  conductor !  (She  springs  up  and  pulls  a 
strap,  shakes  her  skirts  vigorously,  and  pulls  the  same 

15 


16  IN  A  STREET-CAR. 

strap  several  times  in  rapid  succession.  To  the  con 
ductor.}  What?  .  .  .  Well,  I  wanted  the  car  to  stop 
and  you  wouldn't  look !  I  lost  my  purse  because 
you  made  me  run  up  that  hill  to  catch  your  old  car, 
and  I  want  to  get  off!  Stop  the  car,  I  tell  you! 
What?  .  .  .  Eang  the  wrong?  .  .  .  The  cash  regis 
ter?  ...  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  did !  I  want  to  get 
off !  ...  It  serves  you  right  if  I  did  ring  up  a  lot  of 
fares !  Perhaps  the  next  time  a  lady  wants  to  get  off 
your  car,  you'll  look  at  her,  and  stop  the  car  yourself ! 
Why  don't  you  stop  it ?  I  tell  you  I've  lost/—  (To 
a  passenger.}  What?  Why,  yes,  that's  it !  Where'd 
you  find  it?  On  the  floor?  Well,  I  declare !  (Some 
what  abashed.)  That's  all  right,  conductor.  (Sits. 
To  her  friend.)  .  Well,  how  do  you  suppose  I  ever — 
(To  the  conductor.)  What?  .  .  .  Pay  for  the  fare 
I  rung  up?  Well,  I  guess  not!  I'll  pay  two  fares 
and  that's  all  I  will  pay !  I'm  not  going  to  pay  for 
rides  I  never  got !  .  .  .  Well,  if  you'd  been  looking 
where  you'd  ought  to  'a  been  I  wouldn't  have  touched 
your  old  strap !  It'll  teach  you  to  pay  some  attention 
to  your  passengers.  There's  a  man  in  front  wants  a 
transfer,  I  guess.  You'd  better  go  and  see  him,  or 
you'll  get  into  some  more  trouble.  (To  her  friend, 
in  a  loud,  cheerful  tone.)  Some  of  these  men  are  so 
unaccommodating!  You'd  think  this  one  was  a 
machine,  for  any  interest  he  ever  takes  in  anything. 
The  other  clay  I  didn't  know  just  where  I  wanted  to 
get  off,  and  if  you'll  believe  it,  he  got  real  uppish 
because  I  stopped  the  car  so  I  could  look  up  the 
street  to  see  if  that  was  the  place !  He  wanted  to 
know  why  I  didn't  look  in  the  directory  and  find  out 
where  I  wanted  to  go.  As  if  anybody  could  carry  a 
directory  around  with  them  all  the  time !  Besides, 
what's  a  conductor  for,  I'd  like  to  know,  if  he  isn't 
for  the  accommodation  of  passengers?  (To  the  con 
ductor,  paying  fare.}  Here,  conductor,  two.  Trans 
fers?  N-no,  I  guess  not?  (To  her  friend.}  We 
don't  want  to  transfer,  do  we  ?  .  .  .  Or  do  you  want 
to  go  to  see  about  that  bonnet  to-day  ?  .  .  .  She  said 


IN  A  STREET-CAR.  If 

it  would  be  ready  this  afternoon.  Oh,  conductor, 
wait  a  minute  !  Well,  perhaps  we'd  better  go.  What 
do  you  think?  .  .  .  All  right.  (To  conductor.} 
Transfers  to — why,  he's  gone  !  See  ?  He  hasn't  the 
least  interest  in  accommodating  passengers.  I  think 
he  ought  to  be  reported.  Oh,  I  kind  o'  hate  to  do  it. 
He  might  find  out  and  then  it  would  be  unpleasant, 
and  us  traveling  on  this  line  so  much. 

Who's  that  woman  in  the  end  of  the  car,  do  you 
know?  .  .  .  She  looks  a  little  like  the  pictures  of 
Marian  Doubleday,  the  actress,  don't  she?  .  .  .  Not 
so  pretty,  though.  But  they  do  say  Marian  Double- 
day  wasn't  such  a  tearing  beauty  until  she  went  on 
the  stage  and  learned  to  make  up.  Oh,  conductor, 
transfers  to  Powell  Street.  I  know  you  asked  us  if 
we  wanted  transfers,  but  you  didn't  wait  to  find 
out  whether  we  did  or  not.  If  you  treat  me  to  much 
more  of  your  inattention  and  impertinence  I  shall 
see  that  you  are  reported 

Oh,  yes,  Marian's  made  a  great  success  now,  but 
she  had  a  pretty  hard  time  getting  to  the  top,  I 
guess.  Of  course,  she  had  all  sorts  of  things  to  con 
tend  against.  I  sometimes  wonder,  when  I  hear  of 
her  driving  with  Mrs.  This  and  lunching  with  Mrs. 
That,  what  her  swell  friends  would  say  if  they  knew 
that  her  grandmother  kept  a  boarding-house  in 
Sacramento,  and  that  Marian  earned  her  first  money 
as  a  clerk  in  a  store.  I  wonder  why  that  girl's  face  is 
getting  so  red  ?  Maybe  she  saw  us  looking  at  her. 

They  say  young  Belshaw  is  perfectly  infatuated 
with  her.  My  nephew  works  in  a  florist's  shop  near 
the  theater,  and  he  says  they  send  her  a  big  pile  of 
flowers  from  Belshaw  every  day.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  sister 
Maud's  boy,  Johnnie.  .  .  .  Yes,  he's  pretty  wild.  Just 
like  his  father,  you  know.  His  people  are  all  that 
way.  Poor  Maud  never  has  a  minute's  comfort  with 
him,  for  if  he's  behaving,  she's  always  sure  that  it's 
just  the  calm  before  the  storm — sort  of  a  weather- 
breeder,  you  know — and  she  just  worries  and  frets 
alljthejtime.i  ^he_neyer_loses_a  chance  to  tell  Johnnie 


Ig  IN  A  STREET-CAR. 

how  he  ought  to  behave.  She's  never  had  a  card  in 
the  house,  nor  any  wines,  nor  liquors,  nor  anything 
like  that.  She  wouldn't  even  let  him  learn  to  dance. 
And  yet,  that  boy  drinks  and  smokes  and  gambles 
and  heaven  knows  what  else !  Now,  there's  my 
Willie !  There  couldn't  be  a  nicer  boy  than  Willie ! 
He  hasn't  a  single  bad  habit' — and  he's  such  a  com 
fort  with  his  clothes !  His  room's  as  tidy  as  a  girl's. 
Poor  Maud's  always  asking  Johnnie  why  he  doesn't 
pattern  more  after  his  cousin  Willie,  and — well,  I 
won't  tell  you  what  he  says.  It's  awful !  And  his 
mother  such  a  religious  woman,  too! 

But  in  that  florist's  shop,  he  sees  a  lot  of  gay  so 
ciety  fellows  like  this  young  Belshaw,  and  he  thinks 
it's  smart  to  try  to  be  like  them.  .  .  .  Yes,  he's  Dr. 
Belshaw's  son — at  least,  he's  adopted.  .  .  .  Why,  yes, 
didn't  you  know  that?  .  .  .  No,  I  never  heard  any 
thing  in  particular  about  Fred  Belshaw,  but  he's  run 
ning  around  after  this  Marian  Doubleday,  and  when 
a  man  gets  to  going  with  actresses,  it's  safe  to  sup 
pose  he  ain't  any  too  strict.  My  Willie  wouldn't 
think  of  doing  such  a  thing.  But  Johnnie  does.  .  .  . 
Oh,  my,  yes !  .  .  .  Well,  there's  that  Dolly  Dixon 
you  know ;  she's  in  Marian  Doubleday's  company.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  don't  know  where  he  met  her.  In  the  shop,  I 
suppose ;  and  Willie  says  he  saw  a  great  big  bunch  of 
violets  that  Johnnie  sent  her,  and  him  just  a  clerk ! 
Willie  says  she's  kind  o'  pretty,  though.  He  saw 
her  going  past  the  shop  one  day  when  he  was  there 
visiting  Johnnie.  Willie  goes  to  see  Johnnie  real 
often  and  tries  to  influence  him,  you  know.  Willie's 
such  a  conscientious  boy ! 

Oh,  see  this  woman  just  getting  in !  ...  Yes,  she 
got  that  silk  at  Allitson's.  They  had  ten  pieces  of  it 
last  year,  and  it  was  a  dollar-forty  a  yard,  but  they 
didn't  get  rid  of  it  all,  and  this  year  they  sold  off 
what  they  had  left  for  ninety-eight  cents.  .  .  .  Yes, 
it's  good  value.  I  think  it'll  fade,  though.  .  .  . 
M-h'm,  that  trimming  looks  real  nice,  don't  it  ?  She 
must  have  bought  it  at  M^eyerfeld's  sale.  Sixteen 


IN  A  STREET-CAR.  19 

cents  a  yard;  but  it  looks  nice,  don't  it?  I  don't 
believe  it'll  wear,  though.  Meyerf eld's  having  a  sale 
of  laces  this  week.  .  .  .  Oh,  hadn't  you  heard  about 
it  ?  Oh,  my  dear,  real  bargains !  I  saw  some  in 
serting  for  four  cents  a  yard  that's  just  what  you 
want  for  the  baby's  things.  Let's  go  right  down 
there  and  get  it ;  and  then  we  can  walk  back  and 
use  our  transfers,  just  the  same.  And  there  was 
some  wide  lace — oh,  as  wide  as  that! — for  twenty- 
four  cents.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  you'd  use  it 
for,  but  it  would  come  in  handy  some  day.  Yes,  I 
bought  some,  just  on  a  venture.  It  seems  wasteful 
to  let  a  chance  like  that  go  by,  you  know. 

Oh,  here  goes  the  girl !  If  she  was  only  a  little 
better-looking,  she'd  be  the  image  of  Marian 
Doubleday.  It  must  be  annoying  to  look  so  much 
like  an  actress.  Makes  a  girl  so  conspicuous!  .  .  . 
Mercy  !  Did  you  see  the  look  she  gave  me  ? 

Oh,  there's  Mrs.  Beaver !  She's  speaking  to  that 
girl.  Now,  we'll  find  out  who  she  is.  ...  (Business 
of  touching  a  woman  to  attract  her  attention,  and 
shaking  hands.)  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Beaver? 
Such  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  you !  And  is  this 
little  Horace?  How  do  you  do,  dear?  How  he 
grows !  Just  the  living  image  of  his  father,  too,  isn't 
he?  ...  Your  other  boys  are  getting  to  be  young 
men,  aren't  they?  Your  Tommie's  just  three  months 
younger  than  my  Willie.  I  hope  he's  as  much  com 
fort  to  you  as  Willie  is  to  me.  .  .  .  Smokes,  doesn't 
he?  ...  Oh,  don't  you  mind  it?  ...  Yes,  I  know 
kis  father  always  did,  and  I  s'pose  you  do  get  used  to 
those  things  if  you  have  to  live  with  'em,  but  my 
Willie  has  never  wanted  to  do  anything  like  that.  I 
never  have  any  more  trouble  with  him  than's  if  he 
was  a  girl. 

Oh,  Mrs.  Beaver,  who  was  the  girl  you  spoke  to 
as  you  got  into  the  car?  .  .  .  Marian  Doubleday! 
That  girl  in  the  blue  dress  Marian  Double — well, 
I  said  it  looked  like  her.  didn't  I  ?  But  her  pictures 
flatter  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  she's  getting  to  be  quite  fa- 


20  IN  A  STREET-CAR. 

mous,  isn't  she?  But  it  must  be  embarrassing  to 
go  along  the  street  and  know  that  everybody  knows 
who  you  are !  But  then,  not  everybody  knows 
about  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  used  to  know  them  in  Sacra 
mento,  you  know.  At  least,  my  cousin  lived  next 
door  to  her  grandmother's  boarding-house,  and — why, 
yes!  Didn't  you  know  that?  .  .  .  And  Marian 
clerked  in  a  store.  Sold  buttons  and  thread  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.  And  her  grandfather,  old 
Dick  Doubleday,  was  an  awful  old  wretch.  He  used 
to —  What?  .  .  .  (BiLsiness  of  looking  over  her 
shoulder.)  Where?  ...  Is  that  Dolly  Dixon?  .  .  . 
My !  Look  at  that  hat !  And  that  coat !  Who's  that 
fellow  talking  to  her?  .  .  .  Why — it's  my  Willie! 
(Rises  hastily  and  waves  hands.)  Conductor,  stop 
the  car !  I  want  to  get  right  off !  This  is  some  of 
Johnnie's  work !  Willie  never  met  that  girl  of  his 
own  accord !  Conductor,  why  don't  you  stop  this 
car?  .  .  .  But  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  end  of  the 
block  !  I  want  to  get  off  here  !  .  .  .  Oh,  dear !  Well, 
good-bye!  (Business  of  lurching  part  way  toward 
car  door.  Pauses.)  Oh,  where'll  I  meet  you?  .  .  . 
At  Meyerfeld's?  ...  At  the  lace  counter?  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  won't  be  long.  Yes,  conductor,  just  a  second ! 
Well,  at  the  notion  counter,  then?  .  .  .  Oh,  when 
you're  at  the  lace  counter,  get  me  two  yards  more  of 
that  twenty — (to  conductor)  yes,  of  course  I'm  going 
to  get  off! — twenty-four-cent  lace.  Oh,  it's  about  so 
wide,  and  cream  color.  You  can't  miss  it.  ...  Yes, 
just  as  soon  as  I've  sent  that  girl  about  her  business ! 
(To  conductor.)  Oh,  wait!  I'm  going  to  get  off! 
Well,  I  told  you  I  was!  I  never  saw  anybody  so  im- 
pafTent !  I'll  report  you  before  night !  (Loudly,  to 
her  friend.)  Good-bye! 


A  PATRON  OF  ART. 


(Speaker  enters.  Peers  about  through  lorgnette. 
Suddenly  smiles.  Business  of  shaking  hands.)  Oh, 
how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Disbrow?  Are  you  going  so 
early?  .  .  .  Yes,  we've  just  come.  This  is  my  niece, 
Miss  Chester.  We've  been  to  the  Gorham  reception. 
Such  a  tiresome  crush  !  But  of  course,  everybody 
was  there,  and  one  had  to  show  one's  self,  at  least. 
How  are  the  gowns  this  year?  Anything  worth 
seeing?  ...  A  private  view  is  such  an  excellent 
place  to  see  new  gowns  as  a  rule,  but  last  year  I 
thought  they  were  very  tame.  Mrs.  Bel  knap  wore  one 
that  was  really  quite  frumpy,  if  you  remember. 
Good  night.  Oh,  by  the  way,  how  are  the 
pictures?  .  .  .  Which  one  is  attracting  the  most 
comment?  .  .  .  Bosqui?  .  .  .  (indifferently)  Ah,  I 
never  heard  of  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  indeed  ?  I  must  look 
at  it.  Which  wall  is  it  on?  ...  Thank  you;  I'll 
glance  at  it.  Good  night. 

(To  her  companion,  using  lorgnette.)  There's 
Mrs.  Forsyth,  Muriel,  that  woman  in  grey.  She  must 
have  brought  that  gown  from  Vienna.  She's  just 
home.  And  there's  Mrs.  Belknap  in  a  gown  she's 
worn  all  winter.  Such  shocking  taste  in  a  woman  of 
her  position !  It's  really  one's  duty  to  dress  as  well 
as  one's  income  permits.  Last  year  she  paid  two 
thousand  dollars  for  one  picture,  and  came  to  the 
private  view  in  a  shocking  gown.  I  wonder  who  she's 
talking  to  ?  Frowsy-looking  man.  Some  impossible 
genius,  I  dare  say.  She  cultivates  'em. 

0"h,  here's  Kauffman,  the  great  portrait  painter 
— this  large,  shaggy  man  at  the  left.  Let's  go  a  little 
nearer.  He's  talking  about  Bosqui,  too.  Did  you 
hear  that?  (Business  of  listening  and  carefully 
repeating  what  is  overheard.)  "  The  success  of  the 

21 


22  A  PATRON  OF  ART. 

year  "  .  .  .  "  keen  sense  of  color  values "  .  .  .  "  re 
markable  distance  "  .  .  .  "  feeling  for  line  "... 
"  atmosphere "...  what  was  that  about  atmos 
phere?  I  didn't  quite  catch  it.  Evidently,  Muriel, 
this  Bosqui  is  promising.  We  must  have  him  in  to 
tea  some  day.  Perhaps  I'll  have  him  do  a  little  thing 
for  me. 

Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Dwinelle?  Mr.  Dwinelle, 
you've  met  my  niece?  Yes,  we've  just  come  from 
the  Gorham  reception.  Such  a  tiresome  crush !  We 
got  away  as  quickly  as  we  could ;  but  you  know,  when 
one's  friends  entertain,  one  must  really  show  one's 
self,  at  least.  .  .  .  Oh,  everybody  was  there.  Have 
you  seen  Bosqui's  picture?  .  .  .  Such  feeling  for 
line  and  distance !  My  dear,  I  predict  that  he'll  have 
a  Career !  Wonderful  atmosphere  !  Eeally  wonder 
ful !  ...  Ah  ?  I've  been  here  so  short  a  time,  I'm  by 
no  means  sure  I've  discovered  all  his  work;  but  one 
glance  is  sufficient !  Er — how  many  pictures  has 
he?  ...  Only  one?  .  .  .  Ah,  really!  Such  a  pity 
there  aren't  more !  It's  quite  the  only  thing  on  the 
walls  worth  talking  about,  I  assure  you.  I'm  think 
ing  of  having  him  do  a  little  thing  for  me.  .  .  .  Yes? 
Good  night,  then. 

Muriel,  did  you  hear  Kauffman  say  anything  about 
Bosqui's  chiaroscuro?  .  .  .  Are  you  positive?  .  .  . 
Well,  he  must  have  chiaroscuro,  if  he  has  all  those 
other  things,  don't  you  think? 

Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Atherton?  Muriel,  my 
dear,  here's  Mr.  Atherton.  .  .  .  Yes,  we've  just  come 
from  the  Gorham  reception.  Such  a  tiresome  crush ! 
But  of  course,  one  must  go !  Everybody  does ! 
You're  going  there  from  here?  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course, 
one  does  see  the  pictures  better  before  the  crowd 
comes.  Tell  me,  have  you  seen  Bosqui's  thing?  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Atherton,  you  musn't  go  until 
you've  seen  it !  I  have  seldom  been  so  struck  by  a 
line — I  mean,  by — by — the  distance!  Such  remark 
able  feeling  for  color,  you  know  !  And  chiaroscuro ! 
Such  chiaroscuro !  Eeally,  he'll  have  a  Career ! 


A  PATRON  OF  ART.  £3 

You  mark  my  word,  he'll  be  the  success  of  the  season. 
(coldly  bowing.)  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Belknap? 
Mr.  Atherton,  who  is  that  frowsy-looking  person  with 
Mrs.  Belknap?  Is  he — er — anybody,  you  know?  .  .  . 
She  has  been  talking  to  him  ever  since  we  arrived, 
and — one  never  knows  about  Mrs.  Belknap's  friends. 
Sometimes,  they're  quite — er — well,  the  sort  of  per 
son  one  would  like  to  assist,  you  know,  by  asking 
them  to  tea,  or  something.  And  then  sometimes — 
really,  she  knows  such  extraordinary  persons,  some 
times !  .  .  .  (Indifferently.)  Ah,  then  I  dare  say  he's 
nobody.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  getting  late.  Good  night. 
We  shall  see  you  Friday?  Good  night. 

Muriel,  there's  not  a  gown  here  that  I'd  be  seen  in 

except  that  grey  frock  of  Mrs.  Forsyth's 

Where  ?  Oh,  yes,  very  nice,  I  dare  say.  I  don't  care 
much  for  marine  things,  you  know.  Oh,  here  comes 
Mrs.  Chapin. — Art  patron,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Chapin?  Isn't  everything 
charming !  Such  a  relief  to  see  some  pictures  again  ! 
One  gets  so  tired  of  merely  social  affairs !  We've 
just  come  from  the  Gorham  reception.  Such  a  fright 
ful  crush !  But  of  course,  we  know  them  so  well, 
and — everybody  was  there.  Eeally,  everybody,  you 
know !  .  .  .  Yes,  the  pictures  are  very  good — really 
very  good  this  year.  But  of  course,  there's  nothing 
to  compare  with  Bosqui's  thing.  Isn't  it  wonder 
ful  ?  Such  remarkable  feeling  for  line,  you  know 
— and  the  distance !  My  dear,  did  you  ever  see 
such  distance !  He  has  such  a  rare  sense  of  color 
values,  too !  Oh,  I  predict  a  brilliant  future  for  him  ! 
I'm  going  to  have  him  do  a  little  thing  for  me — just 
a  little  thing,  you  know.  You  know  him,  of  course  ? 
.  .  .  Do  bring  him  in  to  tea  with  us  some  day  while 
my  niece  is  here.  .  .  .  Fridays,  you  know.  .  .  Yes ; 
good-bye. 

Dear  me,  what  an  ordinary  looking  lot  of  gowns ! 
.  .  .  Eh  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I  dare  say.  I  don't  care  for 
figures,  you  know.  .  .  .  What's  the  title  ?  .  .  .  "  The 
Tempest  ?  "  "  The  Tempest !  "  How  excessively 


24:  A  PATRON  OF  ART. 

stupid !  They've  made  a  mistake  in  the  catalogues ! 
Really,  such  carelessness  is  inconceivable !  I  shall 
have  this  reported  to  the  Secretary.  "  The  Tempest," 
indeed !  Just  a  stupid-looking  girl,,  and  an  old  man, 
and  a — er — a — er — what  is  that  creature?  .  .  .  Eh? 
.  .  .  (Haughtily  and  very  coldly.)  Thank  you, 
madam;  I  quite  understood  that  is  was  after  Shake 
speare.  ...  (To  Muriel.)  How  excessively  imper 
tinent  !  That  young  woman — who  has  never  been 
presented  to  me,  I'm  quite  sure — presumed  to  inform 
me  that  this  picture  is — er — of  course,  any  one  could 
see  at  a  glance !  .  .  .  Well,  my  dear,  the  title  is  mis 
leading.  It  is  very  stupidly  named.  The  picture 
should  have  been  called  "  Caliban."  To  entitle  it 
"  The  Tempest  "  is- — er — is  plagiarism  !  I'm  sur 
prised  that  the  Committee  permitted  it  to  be  hung. 
It's  by  that  man  Sorbier.  They  tell  shocking  things 
about  him.  His  own  father,  who  was  a  very  respect 
able  sort  of  person,  I  believe,  cut  him  off  without  a 
sou,  my  dear,  without  a  sou !  But  Mrs.  Belknap  re 
ceives  him.  She  says  he  has  temperament.  I  dare  say 
he  has.  I've  noticed  that  the  friends  of  men  who  have 
temperament  are  always  apologising  for  it.  There's 
Mrs.  Belknap  now,  still  with  that  frowsy  man.  'He 
looks  as  if  he  might  have  temperament,  too.  .  .  . 
Eh?  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  yes,  child,  I  suppose  so,  if  you 
care  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Landscape  doesn't  interest 
me,  you  know.  I  wonder  where  the  Bosqui  thing  is  ? 
Do  you  see  it  anywhere?  .  .  .  How  very  thick  the 
crowd's  getting !  Do  let's  go  and  find  some  punch ! 
.  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Where?  Oh,  that?  .  .  .  M-m-m, 
no,  I  can't  say  that  I  care  for  it.  Still  life  never 
appeals  to  me,  you  know. 

Oh,  Miss  Wendell,  isn't  this  a  crush?  It's  not 
quite  as  stifling  as  the  Gorham  reception,  though. 
We've  just  come  from  there.  Such  a  frightful 
crush  !  Really,  1  wonder  why  we  do  it ;  but  every 
body  was  there,  you  know — and  one  really  must  be 
civil  when  one's  friends 

Eh  ?    What  is  it,  Muriel  ?  ...  Oh,  my  dear  child, 


A  PATRON.  OF  ART.  25 

a  mere  smudge !  Do  try  to  cultivate  some  feeling 
for  Art,  Muriel !  .  .  .  No,  no,  it's  perfectly  impos 
sible  !  What  was  the  man  thinking  of  ?  ...  Ah, 
well,  never  mind.  It's  nothing  of  consequence. 
Eeal  Art  idealises,  my  dear.  This  is  hopelessly  real 
istic.  That  sky  is  simply  the  «olor  that  any  ordinary 
person  might  see.  Indeed,  the  color  is  quite  ordinary 
throughout.  You  see?  A  complete  lack  of  artistic 
feeling  and  perception.  Do  let  us  find  the  Bosqi 

Oh,  Dr.  Houghton !  You  came  away  early  from 
the  Gorhams',  too.  Have  you  see  the  Bosqui?  Eh? 
What  is  it,  Muriel?  .  .  .  That  the  Bosqui!  That? 
*0h — er — yes,  (enthusiastically,}  my  niece  and  I 
were  quite  lost  in  admiration  of  it  as  you  came  up. 
Such  a  wonderful  sense  of  color  values !  And — er — 
er« — such  a  relief  to  see  a  bit  of  real  Art,  after  the 
flood  of  impressionistic  stuff !  I'm  going  to  have  him 
do  a  little  thing  for  me.  .  .  .  Eh  ?  .  .  .  Bosqui  him 
self  ?  Eeally  ?  Do  let  me  see  him  !  Where — where 
is  my  lorgnette!  .  .  .  That?  You  mean  the — the 
distinguished-looking  man  with  Mrs.  Belknap?  .  .  . 
Is  that  Bosqui  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  one  can  see  at  a  glance  that 
he  has  temperament !  Do,  please,  present  him  !  Mrs. 
Belknap  has  monopolised  him  quite  long  enough. 

Muriel,  that — that  very  interesting  looking  man 
who  has  been  with  Mrs.  Belknap  all  the  evening  is 
Bosqui,  and  Dr.  Houghton  is  going  to — > — 

Ah,  Mr.  Bosqui,  so  charmed  to  meet  you !  My 
niece  and  I  have  been  quite  lost  here  before  your 
picture !  Such  a  wonderful  sense  of  color  values ! 
I'm  sure  you  must  hear  color,  as  I  do !  Doesn't 
beautiful  color  always  seem  to  you  like  a  chord 
of  exquisite  music  ?  .  .  .  And  the  distance !  Eeally, 
I  never  saw  such  distance  on  canvas,  never !  And 
the  tempera — er — I  mean,  the  atmosphere!  One 
can  fairly  breathe  it !  Now,  that  little  touch  there 
at  the  left —  Ah,  no,  unfortunately,  I  have  never 
studied  painting — that  is,  really  studied  it,  you 
know;  but  I  think  if  one  has  sincere  feeling  for 
AET — er  (vaguely)  don't  you?  .  .  .  Ah,  yes,  of 


26  A  PATRON  OF  ART. 

course,  my  niece ;  this  is  my  niece,  Miss  Chester.  Dr. 
Houghton,  will  you  bring  Mr.  Bosqui  in  to  tea  on 
Friday  ?  There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  ask  him 
about  his  work,  you  know.  Mr.  Bosqui.  Er — Mr. 
Bosqui!  Dr.  Houghton  has  promised  to  bring  you 
to  us  for  tea  on  Friday.  .  .  .  Oh,  certainly,  my  niece 
will  be  there.  .  .  .  Ah,  that  will  be  delightful!  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  doing  a  little  thing  for  me. 
You  know,  I  predict  a  great  future  for  you.  Come, 
Muriel.  So  charmed  to  have  met  you.,  Mr.  Bosqui! 
On  Friday,  then.  Good  night. 


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